You all know these characters don't belong to me. Just a one-shot and my first ever fan-fic.
My very sincere thanks to Kadigan, who has been kind enough to offer several suggestions to improve the story's readability, and I've gratefully incorporated them.
A Trust Repaid
"Watson, are you all right?"
The night's proceedings had so far gone smoothly and according to plan. Three of the four arrests were well in hand, with bobbies herding the forgers into the police wagon. It was the last man to be taken, Mullins, their leader, who surprised us all with a sudden and violent attempt to keep his freedom. Two constables had restrained his arms but had yet to apply the handcuffs when he twisted his right arm free, reached under his jacket, and pulled out a pistol. He muttered a stream of curses, and two loud cracks split the air as he tried to pull away.
Immediately several officers were upon him, pinning him to the ground while I struggled to make sense of what I had just seen. My efforts were not yet complete as I glanced at my companion and assured him I was well. In turn, he gave me a quick half-smile in relief.
The scene had turned to one of chaos, shouts, and heated words, with the most recognizable voice belonging to Inspector Lestrade. A quick survey told him that his men were all accounted for, but that did little to calm his anger at the unexpected breach of procedure. I felt a twinge of sympathy for the two officers who first held Mullins. While Lestrade is a fair man, he has a temper and a reputation for coming down hard on mistakes and failures, and I was sure these men would be the object of his ire for some time to come.
I brought my attention back to Holmes, and immediately noticed something was wrong. It was not so much the paleness of his face, since that was a degree of his natural state, but his posture that alerted me. His left shoulder was dipped slightly, the left arm held unnaturally with his palm facing forward. It was with a thrill of horror that I noticed there was blood dripping between the fingers of his slightly cupped hand.
"Holmes, you're hurt!" I cried.
His eyes met mine and confirmed my fears- they were already starting to exhibit the stare of impending shock. I immediately came to his side as I led him to a nearby bench, where I began the work of finding out how badly he was wounded. Kneeling on the grass before him, I helped him remove his coat, being careful not to cause undue movement of his left arm. Even so, he barely stifled a cry of pain as I slid the left sleeve off.
Though there was no moonlight and the nearest gaslight was several yards away, I could see and feel from his shirtsleeve that he had already bled freely. My fears were heightened as I unbuttoned his waistcoat, spread it open, and saw additional bleeding above his left breast. I could feel bile and my recent supper rising in my throat at the sight, but I managed to swallow and call out for Lestrade. He apparently took notice of the urgency of my cry, because he was at our side in a moment. His sallow face was instantly dismayed at the sight of his sometime colleague and advisor in such a state, and he immediately summoned a constable to fetch a cab.
Meanwhile no words passed among us as continued to examine Holmes. The parting of his shirt revealed two obvious wounds--a penetration of the left pectoralis near the axilla, and another puncture of the upper bicep. As there had been two shots fired, I wasn't sure whether he had been hit by two bullets, or whether one bullet had entered his chest, passed through, and entered his upper arm. It hardly mattered, as the treatment would not vary in either case, but it is puzzling how the mind will form such thoughts in a detached way even in the midst of great stress and urgency. Holmes remained conscious, and his pulse, although rapid, was still strong. But his eyes were glazing, and he was beginning to perspire heavily; I knew he needed to reach a hospital without delay.
When I told him a cab was coming to take him to Charing Cross, he grabbed my wrist with a surprisingly strong right hand, and said, "No, Watson--Baker Street".
"But Holmes, you need more attention than I can give you- you need a skilled surgeon at the very least!"
But he would have no change of mind. I have often heard him express his misgivings about hospitals. His opinions grew from his youthful experiences as a researcher at St Bart's. In deference to my profession, he would never recount specifics, but I gathered that he had seen things that inspired fear even in his cold, logical mind. It was his opinion that a patient's condition worsened in hospital more often than it improved, and there was nothing I would say that ever changed his mind.
To avoid further delay, I gave in to his wishes, and with the help of Lestrade and one of his men, we walked Holmes to the waiting hansom. Another officer threw us a blanket, and as we galloped toward Baker Street I wrapped it around Holmes as best I could. His head was beginning to droop to his chest now, and my heart pounded with fear.
I had not felt such a height of awareness and keenness since my days of tending to the wounded in Afghanistan. It was a heavy responsibility, but I had come to love my time of serving with the boys there. But it came with a price--I often felt as if I were treating brothers and nephews rather than soldiers. Even so, I don't recall feeling such a depth of dread and terror as I was feeling now. What if his wounds were more serious than I could repair? What if his confidence in me became an inadvertent cause of his death? How could I live with such a thing? These were the thoughts pressing down on me as we raced over the streets, while I in turn fought them off by knowing that this was Holmes's choice, and that my experiences as an army surgeon had prepared me for just such a moment.
We pulled up to the door of 221B, and the driver climbed down to help me with Holmes. I later learned that Lestrade had put a sovereign in his hand before our drive home, imploring him to get us here with all possible speed. Unwilling to take my arms from Holmes, I did not use my key but rang the bell instead, shouting for Mrs Hudson as loudly as I could. A moment later we saw a light descending the stairs and heard her tread as she came to the door. The door was opened and the three of us squeezed through as best we could. I considered the ground floor for Holmes, but the cabbie said he would help me carry him up the stairs. Holmes still had his legs under him, so I took his right arm over my shoulders and we ascended a step or two at a time, allowing for him to rest and get his breath. The cabman climbed behind us, with his hands at Holmes's back in support. Mrs Hudson, bless her, was busy putting pots and kettles of water on the stove to heat. I hope to never see again the look of anguish on her face as she saw Holmes's form in the doorway, but she summoned up her Scottish strength and set instantly to work.
The driver and I managed to get Holmes to his room, where we had him sit on the side of the bed. I needed him upright to examine him further, as I still had not ascertained if there were exit wounds. Mrs Hudson arrived with clean linen and began tearing it into strips; at this point I released the cabdriver with my heartfelt thanks as he was anxious to get on to his next fare. I offered him a sovereign which he declined, saying he had been paid in advance. I seated myself to Holmes's left, steadying him with my left hand while removing his shirt with my right. I was grateful to see that his back was unblemished. While Mrs Hudson helped to hold him, I carefully lifted his left arm to inspect its underside and his left chest. As I had suspected, there was another wound anterior to his armpit, confirming the bullet had passed through his chest to enter his upper arm, where it still lodged. He was no longer bleeding heavily from these wounds- the natural clotting process had begun its job.
Holmes had not spoken during these ministrations, the only sounds coming from him the occasional grunt or quick intake of breath between his teeth. Finally he was allowed to lie down, with Mrs Hudson helping me to lift his legs onto the bed and to position the pillows to support him. I gave in to a great relief that the wounds did not appear to threaten his life, provided he could avoid infection during the healing process. He was able to move his fingers at my command, showing the brachial nerve to be intact, and his left hand was only slightly cooler than the right. At my urging, Holmes took a quarter grain of morphine mixed in whiskey, and a few minutes later he was resting more comfortably.
One further question needed to be answered: was the bullet in his arm to be easily extracted, or was it imbedded in the bone? If it were the former, I had full confidence I could remove it; if the latter, Sir Leslie Oakshott would be summoned. I told Holmes I needed to palpate the area, and he gave his assent. He did his best to remain still as I felt around the injured area, and except for a few gasps that escaped him, he bore it well. To my relief, I could distinctly feel the bullet move in the tissue--it had not penetrated the bone. It would be a simple extraction after all, but I offered again to call for Sir Leslie. Holmes would have nothing of that, and I admit to a twinge of pride at the confidence thus expressed in me. Before we proceeded, he was given another quarter grain of morphine, which allowed him to drift off into a relaxed state. Mrs Hudson washed him gently with the linen strips, warm water, and a weak solution of carbolic. When he hardly roused, I knew it was time to operate.
Despite the years, my skills did not fail me. I withdrew the bullet without difficulty, only needing to open the skin an additional inch or so, and the damage was quickly and neatly sutured. I thought it best to leave the chest wounds to heal naturally after careful cleaning. The bullet appeared to be intact, assuring me of no fragments left behind. There was some little oozing from the new incision, but it was soon stopped with mild pressure. The wounds were bathed in carbolic solution again and covered with clean bandages. Mrs Hudson volunteered to sit with him while I went upstairs to my room to wash up.
I came down a few minutes later to find Holmes sleeping and Mrs Hudson smoothing his hair from his forehead. She saw me enter and continued to feel his forehead and cheek, then smiled reassuringly at me to indicate he was free from fever. I continued on into the sitting room and returned with two glasses of brandy. Mrs Hudson and I drank gratefully, acknowledging the unspoken bond between us. Without a word she rose and left the room, squeezing my forearm as she passed.
I looked carefully at Holmes and then sat down by his bed where I found myself overcome with weariness. I wondered how many more times we would find ourselves in situations like the one we faced tonight, with dangers unforeseen and unpredictable. My old wound gave me a pang as a reminder that men have only so much endurance and healing allotted to them, and that Holmes and I had probably used up our share and more. Some time passed as I allowed myself to think back on the boys who came through our hospital during the war, the ones who never made it home. To counter the sadness I recalled the chaps I had helped to save, men who went on to have wives, children, homes, work; some of whom I still occasionally hear from.
Then I thought of my friend and what his companionship had meant to me all these years since - the friendship that had been my anchor as I adapted from Army surgeon to private citizen, the man without whom I would never have met my dear wife, without whom I suspect I would have had a rather dull and routine life.
At that moment, more clearly than ever before, I knew my place in this world. I knew my talents and inclinations were for this purpose: I was born to be a physician, and I was able to repay with my finest offering the trust and friendship Holmes had given me. I felt the tears well up in my eyes, and I uttered a prayer of thanksgiving as I reached over to feel his pulse.